


Bend-The-Knee or be Broken

by CircusMeister



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Could be romantic, Could just be friends, Gen, M/M, Russia deffo thinks England is handsome though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:13:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24786751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CircusMeister/pseuds/CircusMeister
Summary: Russia is at England's country estate for a government mandated diplomatic visit and is chafing under the micromanaging control of his boss. Can England help him feel free, even for a night?Short Drabble for a story prompt: "Thunderstorm"
Relationships: England/Russia (Hetalia)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	Bend-The-Knee or be Broken

Ivan Braginsky had a well-known and violently documented dislike for “friendly political visits” but the guest room in England’s lavish country estate had always been one of his least favourite personal hells. He paced slowly around his confines, inspecting the impersonal velvety decor that he had begrudgingly become familiar with over the centuries. Its careful design was facetiously inviting and desperate to be impressive. ‘Please, make yourself at home!’ the glowing fireplace seemed to say, echoed mockingly by the diamond chandelier who added ‘because I bet you don’t have things nearly so nice back at yours!’ Every country did this of course, but England always managed to be so wonderfully condescending.  
Ivan bristled. He never slept well in other Nation’s homes, but something in the night air was making him particularly restless. He hadn’t found the peace of mind to even sit down since he had arrived, despite his duties early the next day. Showpony duties, he thought, The dusty to be an amusing little beast, well-trained and pampered to show off how well his masters are doing. He gripped at the hem of the silky pyjamas he had been issued for trips like these. They were so unlike the cotton tank top and shorts that he wore at home.   
Ivan glanced around the room again and as usual, his eyes were tugged toward the monstrously large landscape painting looming above the mantle. It was a mirror image of the view outside the room's large window. Temperate, emerald moors bordered darkly by mysterious, hungry woods. He ran an ungloved hand over his scarred throat and thought about his own rugged taigas and unforgiving tundras. He shook his head. It was tacky of England to have a painting of himself in the guest bedroom, even if it wasn’t a portrait. He stalked out the door to see if he could find somewhere less here to be.

Ivan drifted through the hallways, careful not to step on any creaky floorboards. He was making a circuitous path toward the first-floor sitting room. If he remembered correctly, that fireplace was always burning and had comfortable chairs. It was disquieting to think about how intimately familiar Ivan was with England’s home although they had never really been on first name (or even last name) terms with each other. Not that he was with anyone else either… Maybe he could tire himself out reading old newspapers. 

The heavy oak door didn’t creak when Ivan pushed it open. The dying glow of the fire was filling the room with the heavy smell of a quiet night and casting long shadows on the opposite wall. They wavered gently, distorting the shapes of things and making Ivan unsure of where the floor ended and the dark began. Running his hands lightly across the furniture for guidance, he crossed the room silently, coming to a stop in front of the picture window that looked out onto the veranda, and beyond that, those green hills now inky black silhouettes. The moonlight fought valiantly to shine through the thick clouds but was diffused into a mere suggestion of itself. He could smell the humid scent of an oncoming thunderstorm brewing on the other side of the glass.

“Good evening, Russia. Is there something I can do for you?” England’s voice was soft and scratchy with fatigue, and though Ivan would not allow himself to show his surprise outwardly, he felt his heart pick up speed as he turned to look. England was standing in the doorway, hair more dishevelled than usual and an untied housecoat draped over his pyjamas. He was carrying a mug in his hand that seemed to be empty.  
“No not at all, England. Just trying to admire the stars, but as you can see, it is not my lucky night.” Russia smiled his diplomatic smile and put a gentle pep in his voice that he used for others. He was naturally soft-spoken but he seemed suddenly too loud for the room. England crossed the room deftly, and joined Russia at the window, not needing to try to avoid the furniture in his own house. The top of his head only came up to Russia’s shoulders.   
“Quite unlucky indeed. A storm’s coming. A big one if I’m not mistaken.” England said, and Ivan knew he was right. His skin had begun tingling with static electricity. They stood in silence, England sipping at the empty mug every so often. Russia sensed that he didn’t know what to do with his hands (or make a graceful exit from the situation now that he had engaged with Ivan). That man had never been able to stop himself from standing on ceremony even if it made him squirm with discomfort as it did now. Ivan chuckled.  
“What are you giggling about?” England asked, frowning up at Ivan. Ivan looked down at him, his emerald green eyes were glowing with irritation.  
“Your mug is empty.” Ivan pointed into the empty cup. England’s face went red and he set the mug down quickly on a coffee table and he stuffed his hands in his pockets. 

They were quiet for a while and watched the clouds gather.  
“Why are you awake, England? Surely you weren’t hoping to stargaze too?” Ivan asked, enjoying keeping England trapped here with him. He wouldn’t be only one miserably tired in the morning.  
“Oh, you know. Insomnia. You being here and all, I have a lot on my mind. Lots of things being prepared for your stay and all that,” he said airily, gesturing vaguely with his hands. Ivan noticed the deep circles under England’s eyes and wondered how often he was struck with insomnia. He looked much more human now than Ivan had ever seen him in an official capacity. Stubbly, slouching, and underdressed. Somehow, he felt the need to reassure him.  
“No need to go to all the trouble. If I am honest, which I seldom am, I hate the pomp. It is… insincere,” Ivan said, making sure to look away from England’s face before his subject could notice his staring. England ran his hands down his face in exasperation and groaned.   
“Don’t I know it. It’s tax money and organization and time being put into a show for the measly audience of one,” suddenly England realized what he had said and quickly added: “no offence, Russia.” Ivan couldn’t help but laugh again. England seemed to take that as acceptance and continued. “I don’t know of anyone who really likes that pampering. Except maybe Francis. And Alfred. Those two are a pair of egotistical layabouts if I ever saw some.” Ivan nodded, the first names not lost on him. He was reminded that despite England’s prickly disposition, he was in very good standing with the other Nations. Friends, even. “I mean, I don’t even want them in my bloody house but, you know how it is, the boss says you’re a bed and breakfast, you’re a bed and breakfast.” Arthur was leaning his shoulder on the wall now, looking more casual that Ivan had ever seen him. There was an impish smile on his lips, complaining about bosses and other Nations was clearly a favourite pastime.   
“Yes,” Ivan offered, “America has proven many times over the years to be a terrible houseguest, yet he is one of my most constant companions.” Ivan tried to match Arthur’s relaxed posture.   
“Right? The boy carves his name into anything and everything he can lay his hands on, and thinks I won’t notice! Three hundred years I’ve had this little estate and he vandalizes the wall panelling! I don’t know how I could have raised him so poorly.” Arthur mimed strangling someone furiously and Ivan smiled.  
“Is that what it says on the back wall of the closet in the guest room? I had always wondered. Terrible penmanship.” Arthur went a little red in the ears  
“Alfred,” he growled bitterly. This time, when Ivan laughed, Arthur joined in. “Well, I guess, on the whole, being social isn't the worst thing our bosses have made us do, eh?” Arthur poked Ivan in the ribs with his elbow and winked. Ivan forced himself to keep smiling as his stomach dropped to the floor, he did not want to ruin the atmosphere.  
“No, I suppose not,” he said, trying to approximate pleasantness in his voice. Arthur was not fooled.  
“Oh, sorry. The past is a better subject for a younger crowd.” He had his hands back in his pockets and pushed himself up off the wall. His eyes seemed to be trying very hard not to direct themselves towards Ivan's neck. “I’ve been talking to Alfred too much.”

Silence. 

The clouds finally broke and rain finally began to hit the window arrhythmically. For some reason, Ivan didn’t like seeing England feeling guilty on his behalf. Usually, it would be funny but tonight it was not. Unusual. He should say something.  
“Well,” Ivan tried to sound reassuring, “I suppose that even the past is preferable to America’s company.” Arthur let out a little puff of air that condensed on the cloudy window and smirked.  
“You’re a mean son of a bitch, you know that?”  
“Coming from you, England, that is high praise.” Arthur let out a barking laugh that made Ivan smile from ear to ear. His own shoulders shook with suppressed snickers. The room felt suddenly larger as if something oppressive had been banished by Arthur’s earnest smile.   
“Call me Arthur, Ivan. We’ve known each other for centuries. It’s ridiculous to pretend like we’re not at least well acquainted.” Arthur looked up at Ivan as he said this, his eyes shining a little from laughter. They were the same colour as the hills outside. Ivan felt warmth in his face that he couldn’t diagnose.   
“Oh, I thought… Well, we have not always been on the best terms, or speaking terms, I’ve been quite hostile to many of your allies, I-”  
“Oh please,” Arthur interrupted, rolling his eyes, “that’s Russia. I’m asking Ivan to call me Arthur. Here,” Arthur stepped closer to Ivan and Ivan once again felt his heart hammering, “since I suppose I’m formally meeting Ivan Braginsky for the first time,” he held his hand out. “My name is Arthur Kirkland, hobbyist and amateur murder mystery author.” Ivan had no idea what to do, he felt nervous for the first time in a long time. Other Nations never tried to be familiar with him. Ivan stared at the hand, frozen until Arthur shook his proffered hand insistently.   
“I-Ivan Braginsky. Um, personification and official national ambassador of Russia,” he said. Before Ivan could take Arthur’s hand, it was snatched away.  
“Everybody knows that. Tell me something about Ivan!” Ivan was speechless. He hadn’t thought about himself much outside of that in a long time.   
“Uh, brother and,” He felt like he was trying to guess a correct answer, “sunflower enthusiast?” Arthur seemed satisfied because he took Ivan’s hand and shook it firmly. And he smiled. Ivan smiled back. 

The two men stood in comfortable silence for a few moments, watching the rain run little snail trails down the window through which the two men could see the strengthening moonlight.   
“Do you really think that?” Ivan almost whispered. The crackling of the fireplace was setting the volume of the room.  
“Think what?” Arthur looked over at him, equally quietly.   
“Do you think we are... real?” Arthur blinked and furrowed his considerable brows. “I mean,” Ivan paused to search for the words, “When your boss tells you to do something, do you decide whether or not to comply or do you just,” Ivan mimed a little salute and clicked his heels, “even if you would rather die than carry out the order?” Arthur nodded understandingly, his face seeming concerned, but what he said sounded like something he had rehearsed to himself. Maybe late on nights like this, where everything seemed small.   
“I have had to accept that I am not human and that here are some choices I don’t get to make. Not like the people I represent. I don’t get to say no, or yes for that matter, unless one of them leads me there. Boss says ‘the peasants are revolting’? I sharpen my axe. The people say ‘parliament rules’ and it’s the king’s head on the chopping block? I sharpen my axe. It’s that or I’m next.” Arthur shrugged. Ivan gulped. He remembered the weight of the gun in his hand and what it was like to point it at starving citizens one day and the royal family the next. 

“Obviously, we can’t die but, well, you remember what happened to Francis. During the revolution.” Ivan nodded. Everyone had heard about what happened to Francis. He’d pleaded with Robespierre to stop the violence in Paris and been guillotined by his own people. When he woke up, he was out in the countryside where he had first appeared centuries earlier, naked and revolutionary. “We don’t really ever get to choose. Most have decided it’s not worth the effort anymore. Not that I have to tell you that.” Ivan scowled.   
“So… you are saying that it’s bend-the-knee or be broken? That is our freedom? What makes Arthur Kirkland and Ivan Braginsky is - is - obedience with the addition of indignance?” Ivan clenched and unclenched his fists. The first fork of lightning flashed through the sky, for an incalculable instant illuminating the room in a cold white light. The thunder that came after was felt rather than heard. Arthur sighed.   
“It’s certainly not the most inspirational thought, but essentially, yes.”   
Ivan growled and his arm tensed, itching to hit something. To shatter something, anything. Just to make a difference to something of his own accord. But Arthur was looking at him with a pitying acceptance and understanding that Ivan knew could only ever come from another Nation. Ivan felt the fire inside him go out and he slumped against the window, the glass cooling against his forehead and his breath hot on the glass.   
“Are you alright?” Arthur asked, leaning next to him on the window, his hand dangerously, tantalizingly close to Ivan’s. Ivan closed his eyes and suddenly felt how late it was. He couldn’t summon the energy to open them again.  
“This is not a revelation to me. It is just... disheartening to hear it from someone else.” Arthur huffed in agreement.   
“Don’t I know it.” They were silent again.   
Rumbling from the outside rattled Ivan’s tired brain as he stood half asleep, just feeling the window on his skin and Arthur’s presence. That is until Arthur once again pushed away from the wall and Ivan felt the loss. He looked up to see the other man walking determinedly to the other end of the window.   
“You know what?” Arthur wasn’t whispering anymore.  
“Arthur?”  
“I may not get much to myself in this world, but I do get this. I get to be Arthur Kirkland, a stuffy, grumpy, brother, soldier, knitter, terrible cook, and,” He looked back at Ivan and nodded as he pulled a set of keys out of his housecoat pocket, “friend.” he jammed one of the keys in the lock of the veranda door and began to jostle it violently.   
“Arthur?”   
“And I don’t know about you, but I don’t have to be England until tomorrow morning, so tonight,” he threw open the door and was immediately battered by the violent wind and rain. The sound of the door slamming against the wall was camouflaged by another clap of thunder. “I’m gonna do whatever the hell I want.”   
“What are you doing? It’s pouring out there!” Ivan shielded his face from the wind with his arm. Arthur looked back at him with a half-crazed smile Ivan had heard about. It was a famous harbinger of-  
“Who says we’re too old for a little teenage rebellion?” He cackled, once again holding out his hand for Ivan to take, inviting him to spend the night doing absolutely nothing but pretending they were going to die someday. 

Ivan didn’t hesitate, he took Arthur’s hand in his own, pulled him close by the waist as if ready to lead him in a waltz and sent them both careening out the door and into the storm, their laughter drowned out by the elements.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a "thunderstorm" prompt for the hetaliararepair2020 week on tumblr! A few days late but writing takes time and who's about to start a project before the due date? Not this reporter! <3


End file.
